Titles
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: Alternate universe. *Oliver Queen had only one title before the Vigilante: IT specialist. Now, thanks to her, he can add a few more to his list.* Select moments told from Oliver's point-of-view, in a swap where Felicity is the Vigilante. Parallels season one, but not necessarily identical plot line.
1. Data Recovery Specialist

**Title: Titles  
Chapter: One - Data Recovery Specialist**  
**Rating: PG-13 - Mild swearing, and well, I don't think it's appropriate for younger viewers.**  
**Word Count: 1641**

**Disclaimer: If I owned the rights to Arrow, I would be writing screenplays instead of fanfiction. And they certainly wouldn't look like this.**

**Notes:** I know that everyone's glued to their TVs on Wednesday night, and Thursday all the new fic comes out. But, by Tuesday, the new stuff is generally pretty dried out, so I thought I'd start posting my multi-chapter fic on Tuesdays. :) If I do this right, it should give you something to look forward to. And, MysteriousTwinkie, this is for you, because you've been telling everyone to gang up on me to post this. :P Hope it meets expectations.

I wrote this chapter early January and I haven't read it much since, so if you see any errors I missed, please point them out to me. Reviews are much appreciated and loved.

* * *

The first time she visits him, she nearly gives him a heart attack.

It's almost ten on a Friday night, and Oliver Queen is doing exactly what he does every Friday night: slaving over a computer screen, trying to update his security protocols. As an employee for Smoak Consolidated, purveyors of some of the best technological advances of the time, there is no shortage of hackers attempting to break in to their systems, and he spends his nights making sure that doesn't happen. When it does, though, he rewrites the necessary protocols, then sends the unsuccessful hacker an ocean of viruses in which to drown. It's an odd hobby, sure, but it's one that tests his skills, unlike the job that he's paid not near enough to perform.

Suddenly, his work is interrupted when the overhead lights go off. If they've flipped a breaker, the gods of electricity are at least kind enough ensure that it's only the lighting—and not the computer systems—that is affected. Despite that, he's still going to have a hell of a time finding his way out of the building from the basement in the dark. The dark sort of gives him the willies, but he's trying to convince himself it's just the janitorial staff doing repairs or something.

It isn't working too well, and—understandably—he jumps a foot in the air when he hears a voice say from behind him, "Oliver Queen," in a very threatening voice.

He swivels in the intruder's general direction instantly, just as he realizes the voice is decidedly female. Still, he's surprised when he sees the Starling City Vigilante, in all her green-hooded glory, standing by the window to his office. That causes his brain-to-mouth filter to temporarily shut off, and he says to her, "If you're here to tell me I failed the city, I think you've got the wrong guy. I just work in IT, okay? I'm actually trying to keep hackers out right now. If anything, I'd like to think I'm helping. So please don't put an arrow through me—or whatever else you're here to do."

He's surprised because he's pretty sure he hears her chuckle. "I'm not here to hurt you," she says, and he notices for the first time that she has laid her bow on the ground at her feet. She could probably still kill him with her bare hands if she wanted to, but it's comforting to know he won't be impaled on an arrow—that's definitely on his list of worst ways to go.

She steps closer, and he can finally make out a wickedly good figure in that green leather, and he can't help but notice that her full lips are covered with green lipstick. Typical girl, he thinks. She has to accessorize even when putting arrows in bad guys and blowing stuff up. Her boots are knee-high, with thick, four-inch heels that impress him when he realizes she's able to _run_ in those things.

She ignores his bewildered stare and continues, "I hear you're very good at your job, Mr. Queen."

He blinks twice. No way she could've heard that unless she's intimately familiar with the Smoak Consolidated building. That alone is enough to send a shiver down his spine. The Vigilante has to have a day job, too, right? What if she's that crazy girl in cubicle thirty-four who lives with a ridiculously massive number of cats? Or the pretty girl in Finance who turned out to be a gun nut and invited him to a neo-Nazi gun rally? That terrifies him more than the idea of an arrow in his throat. Seriously, _never_ meet your heroes.

His filter is broken, so he says, "Who told you that?"

Unsurprisingly, she ignores him, extending a large rectangle in his general direction. After he squints, he recognizes it as a laptop. "I managed to retrieve this laptop from a target," she continues, "and if you could salvage its contents, I would owe you a favor."

Oliver nearly falls out of his chair. A favor—from the _Vigilante?_ This was aiding and abetting he was thinking about doing here—if anyone found out he was even _talking_ to the Vigilante, he would find a SWAT team at his house when he got back. But, even so, he had to admit that the idea did have its charms. It would be nice to know that the terror of Starling City wouldn't be coming after him any time soon, unless she needed technical support. And, he finally admitted to himself, he was sort of a fan—some of those criminals she had stopped had been seriously bad news.

"I guess I could see what I can do," he offers finally. "But..." He hesitates, because he doesn't want to seem like a wuss, even though he is. "Could you turn the lights back on?" he asks after a long moment. "I need to be able to see in order to tell you what you need to know."

In response, her lips curve into a smile. "Give me a minute," she agrees, and then picks up the bow and fires an arrow in a direction that Oliver can only guess.

Then, quickly as she came, she's gone. Approximately thirty seconds later, the lights come back on, and, in another thirty, she's back in his office, dropping the bow and crossing her arms over her chest. This time, he can see more of her face; the hood still obscures part of it, and a black mask covers all but her eyes and her mouth. She might actually be _pretty_ underneath that getup. Who freaking knew.

Now that he can actually see the laptop, he can tell it's not in the best of shape. "What happened to this poor thing?" he asks her. The broken laptop makes his soul hurt; he's spent his career fixing them, and he still doesn't think he's ever seen anything in this state of disrepair. Even _he_ can't fix this one.

"I spilled a latte on it," she remarks dryly, and he knows that she's being sarcastic. Still, who would've thought the Vigilante had a sense of humor?

He examines it, further and notices that... "Are these bullet holes?" he can't help but ask. He winces as he realizes he asks that out loud, and that he probably shouldn't be asking the Vigilante too many questions.

He doesn't expect her to answer, but she does. "My coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood," she tries this time, and Oliver decides he likes her dry, sarcastic sense of humor. She might actually have a personality under there, go figure.

He sighs sadly at the poor laptop; it hurts his soul to see it so damaged. "Pull up a seat, I guess," he says awkwardly. "Well, I mean, if you want to. You're the Vigilante, so I probably shouldn't be ordering you around. I mean, you put arrows in people that do that, so you know..."

She cuts his babble with a stern, well-timed, " _Oliver_," as she pulls a chair close enough to see the screen. She practically sinks down in the chair, crossing her legs and arms while watching him work. Even then, she's intimidating.

"Right," he says, shaking his head to clear it. "Sorry," he says as he starts typing code and plugging in wires at an impressively fast pace, "I'm not used to having the Vigilante watching me work. It causes me a whole new type of stress, but I should..." He smiles triumphantly as a blue screen appears in front of him. "Looks like blueprints," he says after a moment.

The Vigilante leans forward, studying the plans. "Do you know what of?" she inquires.

"The Exchange Building," he answers immediately. "It's where the Unidach Industries auction is scheduled to take place. Smoak Consolidated is actually competing for it, as is the guy who owns this laptop."

"Floyd Laughton," she says immediately, completely confident in her answer.

Oliver blinks. "Um...no, Warren Patel," he says, hesitant to correct her. Finally, he asks the question: "Who's Floyd Laughton?"

"An employee of Mr. Patel, evidently," she replies quickly, her tone darkening. "The Exchange Building is surrounded by three buildings that would be good enough for Deadshot to use for cover," she adds, and she says it like she's deep in thought.

"Wait, there's a sniper involved?" Oliver asks immediately. He reaches for the office phone. "I should call the police."

A delicate, gloved hand falls over his. "No," she says fiercely. "They would ask how you found this information." She doesn't elaborate, and he can only guess it's because she knows he's not an idiot and can put two and two together to make the obvious conclusion: he would either have to lie—which, admittedly, he doesn't do very well—or he would have to admit to helping the Vigilante and get his ass sent to jail—where computer nerds don't survive well. Neither option looks good.

She continues, "I'll talk to the police," in a tone that suggests she's probably going to corner an unsuspecting cop, put the fear of God into them, and leave the laptop so that they can fact-check. He will later find this interesting because it's _precisely_ what she does. She disconnects the laptop for him, gathering it up to take, and lays a smartphone down on the desk next to his arm. "So you can reach me," she says by way of explanation, "when you need that favor."

Without another word, she's gone, leaving him with a more interesting task than rewriting protocols and warning would-be hackers by riddling their system with viruses.

After all, he's not going to use that favor until he can crack the Vigilante's phone. "Challenge accepted," he mutters to himself as he hooks it up to his state-of-the-art computer systems.

* * *

**If you follow my Little Talks series of one-shots, please note there's a poll on my profile about which one I'll post next. :) Other than that, thanks for reading! **


	2. Vigilante's Personal Internet Researcher

**Chapter: Two - Vigilante's Personal Internet Researcher**  
**Word Count: 1235**

**Notes:** I haven't had a very good day, I think I'm getting sick, and I can't get my one-shots to work out properly. Frustrating. So, just in case I don't get everything figured out in the one-shot category, I thought I'd go ahead and post this to (possibly) make your day a bit brighter. I'm not sure how updates are going to go during the weekend, either, so consider this a consolation prize. Again, it's been a while since I've read and completed this, so if you see any errors, let me know _immediately_.

Also, just a reminder that, **if you follow the Little Talks series of one-shots, there's a poll up for which one gets posted next.** If you'd take the time, you can vote for the one-shot you'd most like to see. As always, thanks for reading and all reviews are loved and appreciated. :)

* * *

The second time she visits him, she's not what he expects.

She does it differently this time. She doesn't shut off the lights, and she doesn't make an effort to announce her presence. It's way past midnight—and much later than Oliver should be working—but he's absolutely stumped on the smartphone the Vigilante gave him. Though it looks innocent enough—just like every other iPhone in the country—he quickly realized that the similarities ended the moment he cracked the shell. All the tech inside—that he can actually trace to something—is military-grade and impossible to trace back to anything other than the manufacturer, and most of the apps are completely locked down. He can't even get the _Internet browser_ to come up, for the love of God. He's been working on it for no less than two weeks, and he's finally coming to the conclusion that this is one puzzle he might not ever crack. He's actually afraid to use it, because there's not a service provider registered, making the phone highly illegal.

As a personal touch—and Oliver's favorite part, really—she's listed the only number in the phone as "Gwendolyn Arrow." He still smiles when he sees it. G. Arrow—Gwen Arrow—_Green_ Arrow. Let it never be said that Starling City's own personal angel of death never does things halfway. Or without style, for that matter.

"Good luck with that," she says from behind him, causing him to jump again.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaims. "Can't you ever use a freaking door?"

She continues on as if he's said nothing at all. "I'm told that not even a government research team could crack that, though I think if anyone could, it would be you." The compliment surprises him, and he thinks she means it. Since middle school, girls have been flattering his ego to get free tech repairs, and he's yet to know a girl who doesn't talk to him for the same reason. But he actually thinks she might not be offering idle, silly, flattering words this time.

"Let me guess," he says once he realizes she's not going to tell him anything else about the phone, "you need help again." He sighs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, exhausted by too few hours in bed and too many in front of the computer screen. "I'm thinking of adding 'Vigilante's Personal Internet Researcher' to my job title." Her expression is anything but amused, so he quickly adds, "Because I love doing it so much."

One corner of her mouth pulls upward slightly at that, but she speaks as though he hasn't just rambled on for too long. "I'm looking for someone," she says.

"Aren't we all," he replies dryly. "I"m hoping she's blonde, pretty, smart, and appreciates a guy who can hack multiple government databases in his sleep. What about you?"

She actually chuckles at that, lips managing to turn upward somewhat. She has a pretty smile, he thinks, then berates his cursed male hormones for letting him think that. She could kill him before he even knew she was there, after all, if she wanted to. But something makes him think she wouldn't want to.

"His name is Derek Reston," she continues. "We were close friends when I was younger, and I want to get back in touch with him." Oliver knows it's a complete and total line of crap, but he does like this game the two of them seem to be playing. It's just the way they communicate now, and it's easier for him to talk to her than any other girl to whom he's spoken.

"Guess you can't exactly reach out to him on Facebook," Oliver replies dryly, already starting to search through various databases for the name.

"I don't even have a MySpace account," she agrees as she pulls up the same chair she sat in last time. "Though I guess I do need better brand awareness," she muses in a completely not-serious way. "Maybe I need to start a Twitter feed. That's what all the kids are into these days, right?"

Oliver snorts. "Yeah, right," he agrees sarcastically. "I can see the first post now: 'Just left the police a present down at the docks, hanging by his feet. You're welcome.'" He turns back to his work. "There's not much here that's recent," he informs her. "No credit activity, no utility bills..." He stumbles onto something else. "You must have met him at work, huh? Back when he worked at factory?"

The act is up for her now, her mouth turning down at the corners. "What factory?"

"The Smoak steel factory," he clarifies, then cringes as he realizes he knows more about her than he probably should. "Sorry, but you said you'd heard of me—last time, I mean. No one usually hears about me—I'm an IT gremlin dwelling in the basement of Smoak Consolidated, very happily I might add. The people who know to ask for me by name work here." She frowns more deeply than before. "Please don't put an arrow in me," he adds quickly. "I promise I haven't tried to look into it or anything. I have a pretty strict moral code, so I if I had looked into it and found you, I would be forced to report you to the police. And you're the only person who really talks to me like a human being and not an IT gremlin, so I didn't really want to do that. Well, that and I thought you'd put an arrow in me—which is only cool when it's in the knee in this game you probably haven't—"

"_Oliver_," she calls forcefully again to cut him off mid-babble, and he can't help but like the way she says his name. "Derek Reston," she reminds him. "He worked at the steel factory."

"Right," he says, unable to hide the relief in his voice. She's not going to kill him tonight, at least, so that is something. "He worked there for fifteen years, until the factory shut down. There was a loophole in the union contracts, and the Smoaks dropped the factory out from under them without having to pay severance packages or pensions. Fifteen hundred workers lost their jobs, and got nothing to show for it. Most of them lost their homes, including your friend," he emphasizes the word with suspicion, "Derek Reston. Why did he become a blip on your radar?"

She's already out of her chair by then. "Royal Flush Gang," she says by way of explanation, giving him something else to Google when she leaves. She's nearly out the window when she turns back and says, "By the way, thank you."

"Anytime," he says, and he's surprised to find that he means it. "Do you owe me another favor now?"

"Not this time," she says seriously. "You've been looking into that phone, which not only voids the warranty, but voids a favor. You still have one, though, any time you want it." She smiles, a small quirk of her lips. "And Oliver? I do actually know what Skyrim is, for the record." Without waiting for a response, she throws herself out the window and disappears into the night.

His eyes are probably as round as saucers. The _Vigilante_ knows Skyrim by an arrow-to-the-knee reference. Holy crap, he thinks, she's probably the coolest girl he'll ever meet.


	3. Online Shopper

**Chapter: Three - Online Shopper**  
**Word Count: 1152**

**Notes:** As promised, here's chapter three! I hope this will be a good reward; I'm not quite sure if I'll have the time to post another one-shot in the Little Talks series, if you follow that. I have about five billion assignments due for tomorrow (not really, but they're scientific articles, so it feels like it), and I probably won't be on here again all day. I hope this will tide you off until then. I'm looking forward to your lovely reviews, but, if you can't, thanks for reading.

**Just a housekeeping thing that you should probably read:** I'm getting ready to re-post some of my one-shots from the Little Talks series. They'll probably go into a new story entitled "Little Talks," and all twenty-five of them will be together _in chronological order_. I think that will clear up some confusion I've been having over the series. You should probably be aware of the fact that most of them feature Oliver and Felicity, but some of them do not. You'll see some of the old files disappearing over this week because of this, though, so don't panic! I'll re-post them soon. ;)

* * *

The third time she visits him, she brings him a gift.

It's almost Christmas when she _really_ starts making headlines. This time, he almost expects her after a few people the Vigilante visited are killed and blamed on her, though it's not her style. He freely admits he's an even bigger fanboy after he's met her in person, so when he reads the news, he immediately hacks the police database. He sees a picture of the arrow, and knows immediately it's not her; the shaft is the wrong composite material, and the arrow isn't green like hers. He knows she'll be scrambling to prove it wasn't her, so he expects a visit any time soon.

He's so wrapped up in his tablet and the super-secret stuff he's doing for Walter Steele, Mrs. Smoak's new husband, that he doesn't even notice when she walks in through the front door.

"Hey," she says to him softly, causing him—again—to jump nearly a foot in the air. The tablet flies from his hands, but she catches it before it can crack against the floors and hands it back to him. Thankfully, she doesn't even bother to look at the screen. It must be some sort of mutual agreement they've made, he thinks: _you don't pry into my business, I won't pry into yours._

He holds it against his chest to keep her from seeing the screen because Walter said talk to no one, and he assumes that means the Vigilante, too. "Don't you _knock?_" he asks rather rudely. It's not his fault that he's tired, crabby, and his nerves are frayed. After all, she's the one who enjoys scaring the hell out of him.

"Oliver, it's the IT department, not the men's room," she quips easily, "and besides, I do remember someone telling me that I should use the door." Before waiting for him to ask, she starts in on another bogus story that he's come to expect and love, the corners of her mouth are already turned up. "My buddy Steve," she informs him, pretending to be serious, "is really into archery." She waves a hand. "Apparently, it's all the rage now, what with the Vigilante and all."

She catches him off-guard with the statement, and he actually laughs before remembering this is something they do with mock seriousness. "Well, if you ask me," he replies, "it looks utterly ridiculous."

Her amusement fades in an instant. "Mmm-hmm," she says disinterestedly, as if to indicate that she most certainly did _not_ ask him, nor does she care to hear his opinion. "Anyway, Steve's birthday is next weekend, and I wanted to buy him some arrows. The thing is, he gets these special, custom-made arrows, and I have no idea where he gets them." She offers him an arrow like the one in the police photo, minus the bloodstains. "I was hoping you could help me find out."

He takes it from her gently, because he's clumsy enough he could probably gouge his eye out with the thing if he isn't careful. He looks at it for a moment before telling her, "The shaft's composite is patented." When he looks up, she's already sitting in the other chair. He does a few searches before adding, "And that patent is registered to a company called Sagittarius." He grins at the hidden joke. "That's Latin for 'the archer,'" he adds as a side note, but he can't help his tone from sounding a little like a know-it-all.

"And here I thought it was just an astrology sign," she remarks in a way that lets him know she already knew that. "Could you find out when and where this was purchased?"

It takes him a minute, but he finally can answer her. "According to Sagittarius Company records, that particular arrow is part of a bundle shipment of two hundred units sent to the address... one-oh-two-four five Wharf Drive."

She starts to take the arrow from him, but then she pauses. "You can keep that for your collection," she tells him. "It's not stolen evidence, so don't worry." She pulls out another arrow from her quiver, but this one is green. "You can also have this one. I would sign it and write 'to my biggest fan,' but, well, handwriting samples and all." She winks at him, causing him to lose most coherent thought. Did the Starling City Vigilante just _wink_ at him? "Officially, these are replicas that a friend had made for you, and they're not illegal or anything."

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. "What makes you think I'm a fan?" he demands.

She scoffs in response. "You're not the only one who knows how to check a computer's usage history," she responds dryly, leaving him to gape like a fish at her. Before he can come up with an excuse, she continues, "And, just so you know, all those illegal searches you've done for me are now removed from the server, which I know you don't exactly have access to." She shrugs. "You probably could if you wanted to, but it's more exciting when the Vigilante vandalizes a building and torches a server."

He winces because he'll probably have to replace it, but he knows she's right. "Wow, that's …" He's actually at a loss for words; no one has ever been so nice to him, especially after using him for tech stuff. Finally, he finishes, "You didn't have to do that."

Her lips turn up again in that almost-smile. "I did," she insists. "Oliver Queen, you are absolutely remarkable. Thank you."

He can't help the smile that spreads across his face. "Well, thank _you_ for remarking on it." He holds up the green arrow. "And the gift."

"You're welcome," she responds, already heading toward the door.

"Merry Christmas," he calls before she can leave, adding a little wave and a small smile.

One corner of her mouth lifts, and he can sense her hesitance before she finally says to him, "I'm Jewish." He realizes then why she hesitated; she's afraid saying so would reveal far too much.

She gauges his reaction closely, but all he says to her after that is, "Well, then, Happy Hanukkah." It's none of his business; he's already told her that he's not looking into her identity. She's done amazing things for the city, and that's good enough for him.

"Merry Christmas," is her reply, and then she's gone in an instant.

He smiles as he picks up the green arrow that came from her quiver and stares at it more intently. She probably makes them herself, which is why the police haven't found any leads on suppliers. Honestly, it's probably the best Christmas gift he's ever received.

It's going to be hard explaining _this_ to his parents and sister, though, when they come to his place for Christmas dinner and see it on display.


	4. Encryption Breaker

**Chapter: Four - Encryption Breaker**  
**Word Count: 1463**

**Notes:** As promised, here's chapter four! There should also be another Little Talks coming this time, but I wanted to give you this! Sorry it's late, but I had to finish some other things first. As always, reviews make me happy, but thanks for reading anyway!

* * *

The fourth time she visits him, she tempts him with a promise.

It's about two weeks after she came to him last—and that nasty Christmas hostage situation. The news indicates that it maybe didn't end well for her, but she was up and about a few days later, saving the guy at the firefighters' charity ball from being burned alive. He's rather glad that didn't happen; being burned alive rates right above being arrowed on his worst-ways-to-die list.

It's quiet tonight around the office, just past eight on a Wednesday night, when he hears the soft thump of someone swinging into the room behind him. He probably still wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been listening for it, but he does, and he speaks before she can. "Glad to know you're okay, after that altercation your friend came to me about. And I heard the Christmas hostage thing didn't end well." He turns around, and he's not surprised to see her standing there. "And I thought my days of being your personal computer geek were coming to an end."

She inclines her head, her lips turning upward ever so slightly. "Is that your way of saying you missed me?" she says, her tone almost teasing. If Oliver didn't know better, he'd almost call it flirting, but no way would the city's own personal guardian angel be flirting with _him_, of all people.

"No," he corrects instantly, but then he realizes he doth protest too much, so he adds, "but if it works for you, go with it."

She actually chuckles at that before launching into her latest bogus story. "So, a friend of mine is doing a scavenger hunt, and there's a case of Rothschild 1982 waiting at the end," she tells him, holding up something that looks like a security fob.

He reaches for it, only feeling the slightest bit paranoid as he admits, "Don't blame you for going after it; red wine's my favorite." He knows that is a really fine vintage, and that it costs a ludicrous amount of money, but he doesn't go there since she probably didn't mean to tell him she has a rich friend.

She smiles wider, and he can almost sense victory in those shaded eyes, but she pulls away the drive before he can reach it. She quickly continues, as if he hasn't spoken, "But in order to find it, I first need to get through this." This time, she extends the drive for him to take, and he plucks it out of a gloved hand.

He examines it closely, popping the cap off before he dares insert it into one of his precious computers. "Security fob," he confirms, now lost in the drive and forgetting the Vigilante for a moment. He plugs the drive in, and the encrypted screen has a logo for Blackhawk Security, which throws him for a minute. "It's PIN protected, and the challenge code is from... Blackhawk Squad Protection Group." Even though he knew the story was bogus from the beginning, this is the first evidence he receives of it.

He's surprised how quickly she answers, "Yeah, my friend knows a guy that works for them, and he's the one who set it up." She must have rehearsed this one. He's surprised that her voice comes from over his shoulder, and when he turns back to give her an I-know-this-is-complete-bullcrap look, his face is only inches from hers. She shrugs, oblivious to their closeness, as she adds, "Personally, I think it's cheating, but whatever."

Oliver rolls his eyes, chuckling. "This coming from a girl who brings all her tech stuff down to me," he comments dryly. "I believe there's some saying about a pot and a kettle that applies here." She chuckles again as he brings up the code window and studies it before adding, mildly impressed, "This is a military-grade, cryptographic security protocol. Your friend really pulled out the stops."

She shrugs again, smiling slightly as she replies, "He's loaded, and the idle rich are hard to entertain." She turns his chair slightly so that he's facing her, and she says, very seriously, "Listen, if you can crack it, one of those bottles is yours." He doesn't know where she's going to find a bottle of Rothschild 1982, but she seems to be the kind to keep her promises. The tone changes abruptly when she moves back to her chair and asks, "How long will it take?"

He thinks about it a minute. "Well, most people would ask for twenty-four hours, but I'm not most people," he says, and he can't stop himself from bragging. "Give me eight hours?"

She nods, sinking into that chair in his cubicle. "I'll wait," she says, and he has to admit, the girl has some sort of patience level to even think about doing that.

The rest of the night is quiet, and, after an hour or so, he forgets she's there. She waits graciously, never really making a noise, barely even moving. She's like a statue in her seat, so it's easy to forget she's there. When he finally breaks through the security protocols five hours later—thirty minutes faster than his personal best—he's actually surprised to see her still there.

"I think your friend gave me the wrong security fob," he says, a teasing tone in his voice. It borders on flirting, but he prefers not to think of it as that because he'd never be stupid enough to flirt with the Vigilante, of all people.

She smiles that almost-smile as she rises to her feet, stretching slightly. "And why is that?" she responds instantly before moving to look over his shoulder at the results.

"Once I got past Blackhawk's authentication system," he replies, "there wasn't anything about a scavenger hunt." His tone turns serious as he continues, "Just a directory of... well, you've stumbled onto something pretty illegal, surprise surprise."

"Define illegal?" she asks quickly, clearly not understanding what he's got on-screen. There's an edge to her tone that he's not familiar with, and he's reminded that what she does isn't exactly legal, either.

"Oh, you know, robbing an armored car with grenade launchers and tear gas," he says, not as lightly has he had intended. "Someone at Blackhawk was using the fob to store detailed routes and schedules for each of the city's major armored car carriers, including the three that have been hit this week." He turns to her. "I know you're the Vigilante and all, but I think we should probably turn this information into the police. They should be able to predict the next heist with this." He doesn't reach for the phone this time, just turns to look at her expression.

Her mouth turns down instantly. "I don't think I have that luxury," she says, and she seems less-than-pleased about the way events have turned. "I have only a few friends that I trust, Oliver. One of them, he went... _undercover_ at Blackhawk, and I don't want him caught up in this." There's something about the way she says 'undercover' that is equal parts disapproving and irritation, and Oliver doesn't understand why.

He sighs. "Well, that's the best news," he informs her. "The worst news is that there's a prime target tonight for the formation they're using—empty street in the Glades." He rattles off the address. "The truck should be reaching that point in about thirty minutes."

"I'm sorry, but I have to go," she tells him abruptly, reaching over his shoulder to pull the security fob from his computer. She lays a hand on his shoulder. "We'll be in touch," she assures him. "Thank you again, Oliver." She pats his shoulder twice before moving toward the window. "Go home and get some rest—you deserve it." With that, she's out the window.

"So no red wine, then," he says to no one in particular as he shuts down his systems. He does as she asks and heads home, uncertain how things will go for her tonight.

The next morning, when he arrives at the office, there is a tall, slender, green gift bag waiting on the table for him. There's a tag on the handle, and when he turns it over, it reads, "Thank you, Oliver" in a very feminine script and green ink. Instead of a signature, a very crudely-drawn arrow is in its place—a green arrow. He smiles as he pulls the contents from the bag, already knowing what it is. He isn't surprised when the label informs him that it's bottle of Rothschild 1982, but he is surprised that she managed to get her hands on it. Either way, it's a nice gift, and it keeps him smiling through the remainder of the frustrating day.


	5. Hacker

**Part 5: Hacker**  
**Words: 1214**

**Notes:** Oh my gosh, guys, I am _so sorry._ I completely forgot about adding this chapter yesterday, on the designated update day. It completely slipped my brain, and I feel _horrible_ about it. As an apology, this is chapter 5, and I'm also going to post a one-shot in a new series that I just finished today. The story should be called "Laconic," so look for it there. :) Any reviews are appreciated, as always.

* * *

The fifth time she visits him, she sends someone else in her place.

It's daylight hours, so he's not even thinking about the Vigilante. She only comes at night, so he knows better than to expect her. It's just after one, and it's actually been a pretty slow day. That makes the day annoying for him, though, because Oliver Queen, like any IT nerd really, doesn't think it's a good day unless he's been given an interesting challenge.

Things are slow now that Walter is gone, presumably kidnapped, for God-knows-what reason. The lull in secret projects has made work boring, and Oliver can't help being more than a little concerned for the guy's safety. The stuff Walter had been looking into before had been seriously bad news; hell, he told Oliver that a guy had already been killed on the case. In the meantime, Oliver has tried _discretely_ to look for him by setting up some search algorithms, but he's had absolutely no results. It's a shame; Oliver actually thinks Walter is a good guy, and he'd hate to see something happen to him.

He's doing some more security protocol patching when someone pops in the door. "Mr. Queen?" he asks in a deep baritone.

The Mr. Queen in question sighs. "Look, if you're here to tell me about another freaking paper jam in Finance, you can tell everyone that they can—"

What they can or cannot do, though, he doesn't get the chance to say because the man cuts him off. "This isn't about a paper jam in Finance," he says abruptly, and Oliver actually takes the time to look up at him.

The guy is seriously muscled, with arms like freaking bowling balls. He stands like a military man, and has ebony skin, brown eyes, and a shaved head. He wears a very nice suit that shows he's professional, but Oliver's fairly certain he doesn't want to know what the guy's profession is.

Oliver doesn't mind chuckling awkwardly and smiling sheepishly. "Sorry about that," he says quickly. "I thought you were another person here to report a stupid paper jam. Not in my job description." He pushes away from the desk. "What can I do for you, Mr...?" He trails off, looking for a name.

The man shuts the door. "John Diggle," he says quickly. "You and I," he continues, "have a mutual friend in common—Gwendolyn?"

It takes a moment for the name to click for Oliver, but then he remembers the phone. "Oh, yeah, the Arrow family," he says quickly, picking up the code. "Gwen's a pretty good friend. What can I do for her?"

Diggle smiles, and Oliver realizes he's not near as intimidating when he smiles. "She said you'd be eager to help," he comments, sitting down in the chair the Vigilante often occupies during her visits. "Gwen got in an... _altercation_ earlier." His tone indicates that this conversation is heading nowhere good—and it's heading there fast. Leaning closer, he continues, "She caught a pretty nasty beating last night, and the police managed to find a blood sample at the scene."

Oliver immediately knows what he's going to ask, so he starts in, all the while asking, "Is she all right?"

Diggle scoffs at that. "Are you kidding me?" he asks. "If I hadn't insisted she needed treatment, she would have come to you first last night."

Oliver shakes his head in disbelief as he finally gains access to the Starling City Police Department's mainframe. "Tough girl," he says, "but like we didn't already know that." He frowns. "You know, you're supposed to deliver some complete bullcrap story right now, instead of telling it to me straight."

"What do you mean?" he asks, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

"It's a thing," Oliver says with a shrug. "She comes here with some sort of super-secret computer stuff she needs me to do, and tells me a ridiculously obvious lie as to why she needs it." He chuckles. "Next time you see..._Gwen_," he adds with a half-grin, "tell her I hope Steve had a happy birthday. And thank her again for the gift."

Diggle looks confused, but—wisely—doesn't ask. "Anyway," he says after a long moment, "could you, maybe, help the police lose that sample?"

Oliver smiles over his computer screen, trying not to seem too smug when he says, "Already have. Piece of cake, really—SCPD was due for an overhaul last year, but they had to make budget cuts. Anyway, the sample was _accidentally_ ordered destroyed five minutes ago."

"Thank you," Diggle says, already rising. "I'm sure Gwen will appreciate your efforts."

"Anytime," Oliver assures him. "Just glad I could be of service." He hesitates before adding, "Look, I know what people say about the Vigilante, and I can't say I always approve of her methods, but she really has helped this city. I'm just glad to be a part of it." To break up any unnecessary tension, he adds awkwardly, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Diggle."

Something passes through Diggle's eyes that Oliver can't quite read. It's a moment he'll later attribute to all that follows, but for now it just confuses him. Diggle must like whatever he sees, though, because he offers a "Nice meeting you, Mr. Queen," before walking away.

* * *

When Diggle gets back to headquarters, Felicity is standing in front of the computer desk. She turns back toward him as soon as she hears him enter, crossing her arms. "How did it go?" she asks. Her face is an emotionless mask, as always, her name-brand glasses obscuring her eyes. She's in a blue dress with sleeves that end just above her elbows and four-inch heels—as she usually is when in civilian clothes—but she has yet to remove her green lipstick. The bandage on her shoulder is covered by the dress, but the scars on her lower arms and legs are on prominent display.

"He managed to hack the SCPD server," Diggle responds as he descends the stairs, "and he ordered the sample destroyed." He crosses his own arms as he continues, "He thanks you again for the gift and wishes Steve—whoever the hell that is—a happy birthday." He doesn't ask because he knows better by now.

Since Felicity saved his life and revealed her secret to him, he's seen a different side of her. She's calm, smart, national, and rarely ever smiles unless it's part of her persona—and she's far more emotionally distant than anyone he's ever met. Because of that, he's surprised when her lips curl upward into something that almost resembles a smile. "Oliver's good," she says simply. She muses quietly for a moment before adding, "Maybe it's time we think about extending him an invitation."

Diggle blinks twice in surprise. "You want to bring him onboard?" He tries to stop her before she goes too far. "Felicity, you don't know anything about this guy."

She fixes him with an icy glare, her almost-smile fading instantly. "That's why I said 'think about,'" she corrects quickly. "You wanted to be my partner on this, Diggle, so I'm just letting you know what I'm thinking. But don't worry—I don't plan on doing anything until I know everything there is to know about Oliver Queen."


	6. Damsel in Distress

**Part 6: Damsel in Distress**  
**Words: 1514**

Notes: Hey, it's Titles Tuesday! :P Haha, my inner nerd is showing. *covers up self* Ahem, anyway, here's chapter six, which is where we really break away from canonical things for a while. This is actually episode 1.17 "The Huntress Returns," but I moved it around. I hope you all don't mind. Even if you do, the best way to let me know is to review! :) But if you're a little shy, well, thanks for stopping by. :P (And I think I have whatever problem Murdock had; I'm starting to rhyme my words. :P)

**Also, I'm rushing to put this up because I have a ton of homework due tomorrow that will probably take me all night. I haven't responded to any reviews or PMs since last night, but I promise that's the first thing on the agenda as soon as I get done! Don't write me off just yet! :P**

* * *

The sixth time she visits him, it's because calls her.

The day didn't honestly start out that badly, but it managed to go downhill pretty fast. That simple upgrade on the networking system was supposed to go smoothly, but if Murphy's Law applies to anything, it's computers, so somehow a virus got uploaded to the server—all because some idiot decided it would be cool to look up porn at work. Then, some other asshat thought it would be fun to play online games at work, and clogged the bandwidth. And finally, a minor screw-up on a tech support ticket earned him a bitchfest from his boss—but the guy wasn't really mad at Oliver; he was mad because his mistress found out he was married and ditched him.

But, of course, he can't make it through the day without being tied to his office chair, which is lying inverted on the floor. In the empty IT department. At night.

He sighs before managing to swing his foot upward, knocking the black iPhone device onto the floor. It's an awkward angle and a lucky shot, but, somehow it all manages to work out. The device clatters loudly to the floor, and he winces at the sound. Through an enormous amount of effort, he manages to move the phone from under his desk to his hand. Dialing the number, even on speed dial, is awkward at the angle his hands are tied, but he somehow manages that too, turning on the speakerphone.

"I'm a little busy right now, Oliver," is the dry response, the Vigilante's voice hard and steely. Something interesting is going on in the background with sounds that resemble combat. It's confirmed when he can hear the _thwip_ of an arrow being loosed at a target.

"Sorry," he says, actually meaning it; he needs her help, sure, but he doesn't want to piss her off. "I need to cash in that favor," he admits, "but it can wait until everyone gets taken down."

"Done," she says, only slightly out of breath, and the background noise has stopped. "What can I do for my favorite IT assistant?" Her tone is teasing, and he can practically see the corners of her mouth slightly raised.

He's momentarily distracted from his situation as he can only scoff, "Please, I'm your _only_ IT assistant."

"Yes," she agrees, "but if I had more, you'd be my favorite." Something in her tone dares him to doubt her, and he's never been one to take a dare. Before he can respond, she asks instead, "But you never answered my question. What can I do for you, Oliver?"

He sighs deeply. "Well, you won't believe my day," he says to her honestly. First, my boss yells at me, and then some crazy chick decides it'll be fun to threaten me and then tie me to my desk chair. And then she throws it over so it's lying down. Not a good day." He hesitates by finally adding, "Though I hate to play damsel in distress, I'd really like to use up that favor to get me the hell out of this chair."

She seems to hear the panic in his tone, though the statement is more than a little callous. "What caused this to happen?" she asks, all humor suddenly leaving her.

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "She had dark hair and wore a mask—not unlike yours, honestly. Carried a crossbow and wore a purple coat."

There's a tone in her voice he's not entirely sure he likes when she answers, "I'm headed to you now, Oliver." She sounds like a vengeful goddess, and he hopes that tone isn't aimed at him. The phone goes dead abruptly, and he can only hope she gets there soon.

It takes her all of five minutes. "We've got to stop meeting like this, Oliver," she says from behind him, her tone teasing. There's an edge to her voice, though, that she's trying very hard to mask. But he knows to listen for it, now that he knows her so well.

"Believe me," he replies dryly as she starts to untie him, "this isn't something I enjoy." Her hands work gently around him, cutting the rope with a rather impressive knife he's never seen before. Changing the subject, he asks hesitantly, "Do you always carry that thing?"

Her lips pull up the slightest bit, though the set of her jaw shows she's not exactly pleased at the moment. "Never leave home without it," she assures him, though he doesn't find it all that comforting. "But I only use it to rescue handsome IT guys from desk chairs."

He opens his mouth to respond, but then he realizes what she just said, and he's not sure what to do with that information. Ever since he first met her, there's been a box of information stored at the back of his mind, where he keeps things about her he's not sure what to do with. It's been working for him so far, but that thought doesn't quite fit in that locked box.

When she cuts the last of his ropes free, she helps him upright, placing a hand to his cheek in a very intimate gesture. It's the first time he notices her eyes are blue, but with the shading from the hood, he can't determine the exact shade. "You all right?" she asks softly, searching his expression for something.

Oliver shakes his head, a little dazed by his close proximity. "Yeah, I think so," he says finally, embarrassed to find himself a little breathless.

She removes her hand after a lingering moment, then crosses her arms. "Good. Tell me what happened," she demands.

He shrugs. "Like I said. Some crazy chick comes in with a crossbow and tells me to hack into WitSec and find out when and how they're transporting a prisoner."

"Frank Bertinelli," she says, cutting him of with absolute certainty.

"Yeah," he agrees, surprised. "How did you know that?"

"The girl you encountered was _Helena_ Bertinelli," she states flatly, giving him more information than usual. "Her father had her fiancé killed, and she wants revenge." She sighs as if she carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. "She, too, lost the the most important man in her life because of events far out of her control."

She pauses for a long moment, as if expecting Oliver to comment, but he doesn't. He's certain she doesn't mean to tell him so much about herself. Still, he's very certain that he's not doing a good job of hiding the sympathy in his eyes. When she finally continues, it's simply to say, "I thought she was looking for justice. I thought she was like me. I was wrong."

He frowns, choosing not to comment directly on what she's said; instead, he stores those thoughts in the box in his head and focuses on something else. "She said something about a 'she,'" he says, realization dawning on him. _I can see why she likes you_, she said to him, in a tone that was anything but complimentary. "She was talking about you. But how did she know about _me?_"

The Starling City Vigilante makes a noise of disgust in her throat before clarifying, "You remember my friend, Mr. Diggle? He might have accidentally let it slip that I knew the best hacker in the area. Mentioned you by name, actually. The rest I'm assuming she got from Google."

Oliver is later ashamed at how colorfully he swears, despite how beautiful the sound of her genuine laughter is. After sobering, she finally asks, "Where did you tell her?"

Oliver hesitates. "I didn't know what her plans were for Bertinelli, but I did know they weren't going to be good. Two transport trucks left the facility—one containing Papa Bertinelli, the other with a decoy." He offers her a prideful smile. "I gave her the decoy." He quickly rattles off route it's taking before realizing, "She said she'd kill me if I gave her the wrong one."

She pats his shoulder twice. "And that's where I'll be." She takes a pen and a piece of paper from his desk, scribbling an address on it quickly. "Mr. Diggle should be home right now," she informs him. "This is his address. Stay there tonight, and if he gives you any trouble, remind him that it's his fault your life is in danger." Something unfathomable tints her expression. "I want you safe if the mission is compromised," she says with a tone that sends a shiver up his spine.

"What's the mission?" he asks slowly, uncertain he wants to know the answer.

"Stopping Helena," she says simply, coldly, her expression dark, sinister, and unforgiving. She only stops for a moment to say, "Rest well, Oliver," in a completely different tone before gathering up her bow and spiraling out into the night.

But the next morning, when he reads that Helena Bertinelli received an arrow through her heart the previous night, it's the former tone he remembers most.


	7. Biochemist

**Part 7: Biochemist**  
**Words: 1259**

**Notes:** I'm sorry it's been so long since I've posted anything (if you're reading my other stuff; I'm up-to-date on this one), but real-life stuff decided to attack with full force. I did write a few more pieces in my spare time, but I think those will wait until another day. Anyway, let me know what you think of this one! :)

Oh, and I hope no one minds the pre-med joke; I've had similar feelings about my pre-professional program, too. :P

* * *

The seventh time visits him, he thinks he might be in over his head.

It's another late night at the office, and he's heard she's jumping the Vertigo thing pretty hard. Actually, it seems that the only thing on the news is Vertigo these days; when the Vigilante isn't getting press about beating on dealers, it's all about Tommy Merlyn doing Vertigo and jumping in his car after he and Laurel Lance broke up, and subsequently wrecking his car the same way he wrecked his relationship.

Needless to say, he's expecting her to show up any night with a sample of Vertigo for him to analyze, and he's not sure if he can do it this time. Computer problems? No big deal. But Vertigo? He doesn't want _anything_ to do with that, thank you.

When she walks in the door that night, he can already tell that something is off about her. Her perfect posture is damaged by slouching, and she's wobbling lightly on her feet. She holds onto the door frame tightly as she walks in, and it is clear that something is very much not right.

"You look like something the cat dragged in," he says to her lightly, and is even more concerned when she doesn't respond. "Are you all right?"

She simply moves to the high-powered desk lamp he has on the work table behind his desk and shuts it off, moving slowly and wincing as she gets close to it. By way of explanation, she says, "Sorry, I've got a bit of a hangover."

He moves from his seat, pulling the chair over so she can sit down, and is surprised when she thanks him. "Sounds like you need a Bloody Mary and a pretzel, not the IT department," he says to her, trying to be as cheerful as always.

She sighs, her speech slowed somewhat. "Actually," she says after a moment, her mouth turning up at the corners just enough to be noticeable, "my buddy Kevin is starting an energy drink company. He says this stuff of his is fantastic for curing hangovers." She frowns again, but this time it's for show. "But I'm very particular about what I put in my body."

His brain-to-mouth filter has been on the fritz all day, so his thought just somehow manages to slip out as, "So I've noticed," as his eyes roam over her figure again. He mentally slaps himself, before correcting, "I said 'not noticed,' right?"

She actually chuckles at that, and he's glad his slip-up put her in better spirits. But like always, she continues on as if he hasn't spoken at all. "I'm trying to find the secret recipe. Could you please to a... spectral analysis"—she seems uncertain of the phrase—"to figure out exactly where in the city it's made?" She holds up a syringe, of all things, filled with blue liquid.

"If it's an energy drink," he asks, calling her bluff, "why is it in a syringe?"

"I ran out of sports bottles," she replies in that mock sincere tone he's come to appreciate. It's the only answer she offers.

"You do realize your BS stories are getting worse, right?" he asks, earning him another chuckle. He hesitates before picking up the syringe. "I'm not sure I'm your guy on this one," he admits after a long moment. "I'm going to have to go up to Applied Sciences and run it through a mass spec and God knows what else, and I only made a C in organic chemistry."

She crosses her arms. "Is that a requirement for all computer science majors, or just you?" she asks, smiling slightly.

"I was pre-med as an undergrad once," he admits, only halfway joking as he continues, "but then I came to my senses. I don't want you to see what a screw-up I am in the lab, so just wait here, okay? It shouldn't take me too long—Smoak Consolidated has the sweetest machinery on the market."

"I'll be here," she assures him.

* * *

When he arrives back at the office a few hours later with tons of printed results to run through his computer, he's surprised to find her asleep in the chair. She actually looks peaceful sitting there, even in the getup and with the bow and arrow that has killed many a bad guy. Unsure how to wake her—but knowing full well he should most definitely _not_ touch her—he says quietly, "Uh, hey."

She's upright in an instant, but then her mouth turns down in a grimace a second later as though the sudden motion causes her pain. "Sorry," he says, wincing, "didn't mean to startle you." He holds up the printouts. "If you can come back to the land of the living, Sleeping Beauty, I should have those results for you." He worries that he might be too forward for a moment, because her expression turns absolutely unreadable, but then she smiles.

A few minutes of computer analysis later, he's able to tell her, "The solvent used in the sample—of what I now know to be Vertigo, by the way—is runoff water originating within a ten-block radius of where East Glades meets the bay." She puts a hand on his shoulder as she leans closer to the monitor and the map he's pulled up on the screen. "Your best bet is a juvenile detention center abandoned about three years ago. Cutbacks and all that."

"Thanks again, Oliver," she says as she moves to pick up the sample and her bow, wincing when the motion probably gives her a headrush. "I appreciate it."

Oliver hesitates a moment before finally saying to her, "Look, I don't know what happened to you to make you all..." He mimics her wobbly gait, and she is not amused in the least by it. He continues quickly, "But, at the risk of being impaled on an arrow, maybe sit this out until you're back up to speed, alright? I mean, no offense, but you look as though you couldn't hit the side of this _building_ with an arrow right now."

She gives him a half-smile, one corner of her mouth rising above the other. "I don't have that sort of time table," she informs him. "And there's something you've forgotten—something that you should _never_ forget."

"What's that?" he asks, not sure he wants to know.

Her smile is the Mona Lisa's, secretive and knowing. "I don't need the bow." It's a threat of sorts, but it's not aimed at him. Her expression is torn for a moment before she makes her way back to him. Quickly, and before he can realize what's happened, she places a kiss on his cheek. "And thank you, Oliver," she adds with a pat to his shoulder, "for your concern."

Before his brain is back to coherent thought, she's through the doorway, headed to God knows where. Did the Starling City Vigilante just _kiss_ him? He's pretty sure he's imagining things, but then he catches sight of his reflection in the glass server case next to him, and he can see something that looks like a green lip print on his cheek. She _did_ kiss him, he realizes as he wipes the evidence away with his shirt sleeve. Holy crap, she kissed him—_him_, of all people. Lowly, invisible Oliver Queen is the one she chooses, not only to trust with her secrets, but also enough to be herself around him.

Not that he's making a thing of it or anything, but she might actually _like_ him. He's just saying.


	8. Intelligence Gathering Agent

**Part 8: Intelligence Gathering Agent**  
**Words: 1028**

Notes: I almost forgot, but it's Titles Tuesday! :) Sorry about the delay, though. This is the penultimate chapter, and it's a little shorter than the others, but I promise I'll make up for it in the next one. *knowing smile* **Also, my tumblr page is posted on my profile.** If you want to keep up with what's going on story-wise, reblogs in the Arrow fandom, or just say hello, that's the place to do it. :) Anywhoo, thanks for reading! Reviews are loved and appreciated. :)

* * *

The eighth time she visits him, he doesn't realize it's her.

He manages to work up the courage, but, at the time, he doesn't know that Felicity Smoak is the Starling City Vigilante, the Green Arrow who's been asking for his help at least bimonthly since she made a name for herself. He calls Felicity Smoak, though, not because he trusts her or, hell, even _knows_ her, but because he thinks she's the only person he _can_ talk to about the matter.

It's the night after the Vigilante visited him, and he thinks, in hindsight, it might have been a little ballsy to call Felicity freaking Smoak and demand a meeting with her, outside of Smoak offices and work hours. He asks her to meet him at the Big Belly Burger on the edge of the Glades, just a few blocks from his apartment. She's about thirty minutes late—surprise, surprise—but she does wave at him and offer a little smile when she walks by his window seat. He doesn't know how in the world she knows him, but she does, and that makes his life a little easier.

To say Felicity is pretty is an understatement, with her excellent figure and gorgeous looks. She's a bottle blonde with dark roots, and she wears plastic-framed glasses that somewhat obscure her blue eyes. Her full lips are painted a vibrant fuchsia, and her hair is pulled in an elegant ponytail draped over one shoulder She seems to like four-inch designer heels, as obvious by her choice tonight, in an emerald green color, with a black, sleeveless dress that falls just above her knees. Five years ago, she would have worn something flashy, exposing cleavage, most of her legs, and possibly her back, but after the island, she's more conservative, with the most daring exposure being to her collarbone. He instantly understands why when she stands in front of him; her arms are littered with scars he knows better than to ask about.

"You're Oliver Queen?" she asks him, her voice layered with Valley Girl tones that speak of old money and getting everything she's ever wanted. Even still, he feels as though he's heard her voice before, though he can't place it.

"Yeah," he says instantly. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Smoak."

She smiles sweetly at him. "Please, Oliver," she says, dismissing all formality, "call me Felicity." There's something familiar in the way she says his name, but again, he can't quite place it.

He launches right into his dilemma. "The thing is... Felicity, I've been debating whether or not to share this with you for weeks. Can I trust you?"

Something flickers across her features that he can't read, before she settles into that smile again. When it's clear she isn't going to speak yet, he continues, "Look, I'm not an idiot, but there's no one else I can go to about this. No offense, but you're not exactly the most trustworthy person I know." He sighs. "But, for some reason, I feel like I can trust you. Why is that?"

"I've just got one of those faces," she says dismissively, still with that same persona of nonchalance. This time, however, Oliver sees beneath it, and when he frowns, she winces and adds, "Sorry."

"At the risk of being fired," he continues, "cut the crap. We both know the ditsy blonde act is just an act. I'm not asking for your innermost secrets, but at least _try_ to be honest with me here."

She sighs heavily, and the expression falls from her face like a mask being removed. "I'm sorry," she says, her tone far different than the one she was using before. "I'm used to having to pretend for everyone. But, yes, Oliver, you can trust me. I promise whatever is said here is between you and me." Her voice is sincere, and though he probably shouldn't, he trusts her in that single moment.

"Then I have something to show you," he says quietly, before pulling out of his jacket pocket the book that has caused him so much grief over the past few weeks. Such a small book shouldn't be so troublesome, he thinks as he looks at its innocently brown, bound cover.

She takes it from him slowly, as if with dread, and opens it to reveal all the names inside. "What is this?" she asks him, eyes wide.

"I don't know," he admits. "But you should know that some of the names in there? They've been visited by the Vigilante in the past few months—both the copycat and the original." Her head tilts to the side as she regards his word choice.

"Where did you get it?" she tries again, still flipping through pages, not looking at him.

"From your stepfather," he answers, and that causes her to look up at him. "Walter, he said he found it in your house, and that it belongs to your mother. I don't want to get caught up in some sort of _Hamlet_-type thing here, but when he gave it to me to analyze, he did warn me that someone had already been killed over this information, and that it is incredibly dangerous." He sighs heavily again, collecting his thoughts. "Walter thought that Mrs. Smoak was hiding something—more than the two-point-six million dollars she invested in a start-up venture that didn't really exist. He wanted me to look into it, but then he vanished, and I think this might have cost him his life."

Her expression is unreadable then, and after a long moment, she finally says, "Thank you for this, Oliver," dropping her hand lightly over his. He notices that two of her fingernails on her right hand are acrylic, while the others are natural. "I don't know if you can ever trust me, but this is enough to make me trust you."

"Just let me know if you need any help with this," he replies easily.

Something akin to a smile crosses her face unexpectedly, as though she's laughing at something he doesn't understand. "Believe me, Oliver, if I need help, you'll be the first person I'll call on."


	9. Guardian Angel

**Part 9: Guardian Angel**  
**Words: 2835**

**Notes:** Okay, guys, this is it! The last chapter is now up, and _Titles_ is now officially complete. I promise I'm not done with this universe; I have a lot more to happen here. But, for now, _Technical Assistance_ takes priority, so that's what I'll be writing for a while. I hope to give you some one-shots to finish out my season one parallel, then, hopefully, pick up on season two once it all finally airs. We'll see how that plan goes. Also, this is almost _triple_ the length of the last chapter, so I hope this makes up for the short chapter. :) Reviews are loved and appreciated, as always, but thanks for reading either way.

**Also, really important note:** If you haven't seen it yet, a side story for _Titles_ is up right now. **It's a one-shot called "Reluctant Hero" that features probably the only time I'll ever do Felicity's POV in this universe.** In addition to that, next Tuesday, there will be another stand-alone posted in this universe. **It will be a one-shot, but it will be longer than this chapter.** I'd give you the title, but it would give too much away. :)

* * *

The ninth time she visits him, he has to make a leap of faith.

Oliver has worked until six on different matters that need doing now that Elizabeth Smoak is taking over as CEO, and he decides to leave early—for him, anyway—to have a nice night at home, possibly with the bottle of wine the Vigilante gave him and a _Doctor Who_ marathon. He unlocks his Nissan Versa, gets in, and starts the engine—which is far too quiet to mask the sound of the driver's side rear door opening. He jumps in surprise, but when he turns around, relief washes over him instantly.

He knows by the attire that it's the Vigilante again, and he's not too surprised to see her; after all, her asking for his help has apparently become a thing over the past few months. "Jesus," he exclaims, "could you at least catch me in the office instead of here?"

"I didn't have time," she says simply, and something is off about her speech as she crawls into the backseat, lying across it. "I think it's time we do introductions," she says, and for the first time he notices the mask in her hand. She pulls back the hood on her emerald green jacket, and it takes Oliver a minute to place her features, but then he realizes she's missing her trademark glasses.

"Felicity Smoak," he breathes, surprised, but then he remembers the first and only time they met. Then the news stories flash in his mind, about how she was accused of being the Vigilante in the past—and how hard she hit that Vertigo thing after her old flame, Tommy Merlyn, nearly got himself killed over it. "Wow, everything about you just became so unbelievably clear." She turns toward him, and he can see the red stain spreading across her jacket. "You're bleeding!"

She seems way too calm when she says, "Yeah, I don't need to be told that, Oliver."

"Right," he says, clearing his head. "You need a hospital." He turns to start the car, but then he remembers. "But you can't go to a hospital with a gunshot wound, can you?"

She seems to appreciate this, even though she's about to pass out in his car. "Take me to my father's steel factory in the Glades," she says. "Diggle is there—basement." Without a word, he turns to drive the car, but she puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. "You need to promise me that's where you're going to take me, and nowhere else."

It's a difficult decision because he always swore he'd turn her in if he ever learned who she was, fanboy or no. But that was long before things changed between them, and it had become more than just the Vigilante needing the IT nerd. Somehow, the whole situation had become highly personal, especially since she kissed him. So, really, there's only one decision he can make: "Yeah, I promise." Softer, he mutters, "Something tells me bloodstains are _not_ covered in my lease."

She allows herself to pass out then, and he marvels, as he puts the car in reverse and pulls away, at how much she seems to trust him.

* * *

When he arrives at the old steel factory, she's still out and he can't get her to wake up. He picks her up and carries her in, heading toward the basement. She's lighter than he expects, so he manages to get to the basement steps quickly enough. The blood is seeping through her jacket, his upholstery, and his shirt at an alarming rate, and he just hopes he drove fast enough.

He can make out little in the low lighting, but he's pretty sure that's Diggle sitting at the computer screens. Hesitant, he finally calls, "Excuse me?"

Diggle whips around faster than Oliver expects, pointing a gun at him. "Look," Oliver continues, "you can shoot me later if you want to, but she's been shot in the shoulder, and it's bleeding profusely." As his arms protest under her weight, he adds, "And she's a lot heavier than I expected."

That becomes Diggle's call to action, and he instantly takes Felicity from Oliver's arms and puts her on a metal table, peeling away the jacket and the straps on her bra and undershirt in a very gentle way, careful to preserve her modesty. He hastily removes the bullet and covers it with at thick before examining it more closely. "Dammit, it just missed the carotid. Press here," he barks at Oliver, which calls him to action immediately.

"I should have taken her to a hospital," Oliver says, chastising himself as he applies pressure to the wound.

"If you had taken her to a hospital, they would have wanted to know how and why she got that wound," Diggle explains as he pulls over a tool box with an old defibrillator and a heart monitor on top of it.

"Well, from experience, I can say that how and why are Felicity's two least favorite questions," he jokes, but his tone falls short.

Diggle snorts, seeming to understand Oliver's need to make light of the situation. "She's not too fond of when or where, either," he agrees.

The bigger man opens the bottom shelf of the tool box, exposing... "Is that _blood?_" Oliver asks him uncertainly.

"Yeah," Diggle confirms, "it's blood she stored up for a rainy day, and right now, it's pouring." He takes over from applying pressure to the wound, preparing to give him a blood transfusion.

"You know what you're doing," Oliver comments. In most cases, it would probably be a question, but he's seen enough medical work to know that Diggle has done this before.

"I had some medical training in the Army," he replies, and Oliver doesn't ask more for fear of interrupting him. "I just hope it's enough." When Diggle pulls back the bandage, it takes everything Oliver has not to wretch. "Remember playing Operation as a kid?" he asks him.

"Yeah," Oliver says, and he knows he's greener than her jacket right now, "but it never made me want to throw up." He follows Diggle's lead and pulls on a pair of latex gloves. "This is a _lot_ of blood."

The military man takes pity on him, saying gently, "Listen, Oliver, she's gonna be all right. Believe me when I say she's been through worse." Something about the mottled scar on the shoulder opposite the wound makes him believe it.

* * *

A few hours later, Oliver and Diggle are both standing vigil over an unconscious Felicity, Diggle sewing up the wound with military proficiency and clinical detachment. The wound is just above a tattoo of an eight-pointed, ornate star that Oliver knows he'll eventually run through a database to see if he can find out what it means.

Oliver takes off his latex gloves, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Good job," he says to the other man before adding, "I think."

"Her heart rate's elevated, but at least the bleeding has stopped," Diggle comments laconically, with all the detachment of a professional surgeon. When he turns back to Oliver, he seems more like his normal self. "Thanks for your help. Somehow you managed to keep your head on."

"Well," he says, again needing to make light of the situation, "I always wondered how I'd react if I found my boss shot and bleeding inside my car."

He smiles knowingly at something that Oliver doesn't quite understand. "I thought this would be a little more of a shock to you," he admits. "Are you saying you called this all along?"

Oliver moves over to inspect a series of arrows that exactly match the one she gave him. "I'm not saying anything, except that when I took her the book Walter found, the Felicity Smoak I met with wasn't a rich party queen, famous for being famous." He laughs. "She may be blonde, but she's not blonde enough to pull that off."

"You're very perceptive," he comments, "and she's not very good with cover stories."

Oliver snorts. "You're not any better," he says, calling the man out. "At least she tried. You just asked me to hack into a police database."

"Yeah, well, without you, we never would have caught the Count, stopped the armored car robberies, or stopped Deadshot. That wasn't just her, you know—you're a part of that, too."

For the first time, Oliver realizes the implications of his help. Though he might not always approve of the body count she leaves behind her, he does know what a great aid she is in ridding the city of criminals. After all, the reason the crime rate is down isn't because of new law enforcement procedures. This is just the first time anyone has pointed out that _he_ played a part in that, too. He always considered her to be the hero, but maybe he gets a little credit for heroics, too.

Diggle continues on, oblivious to Oliver's thoughts. "Hard as it is for her to admit, even Felicity needs help sometimes."

It's quiet for a moment, but then the heart monitor goes haywire, beeping incessantly, and she starts thrashing wildly. "What's happening?!" Oliver demands.

Diggle doesn't answer, but starts barking orders. "There's a syringe labeled 'ativan.' It should stop the seizure—go!"

Before he can reach it, she flatlines, and Oliver knows by the look on Diggle's face that he has no idea what to do and is way out of his comfort zone with medicine. Oliver takes over for him, suddenly remembering the hours he spent working in the hospital. He grabs two of the pads for the defibrillator, hiking her tank top up just high enough to place one under her ribcage, and then places the other over her heart.

"Do you know how to use one of those things?" Diggle asks him.

Oliver hopes his grim expression explains it all. "We're about to find out."

Diggle pulls the paddles loose and places them on the pads, but they don't work. He looks like he's about to panic again, but Oliver instead pulls out a screwdriver from the toolbox and says, "I heard the charge, so that's good news—that means the problem is in the wiring." A few seconds of reconnecting wires later, he demands, "Try again."

This time, the charge takes, and there's still no response, but Diggle doesn't need to be told to try again. This time, when the charge hits, her heart starts back up with it. They both stare at the monitor for a minute to make sure they're not imagining it, and that yes, her heart is beating again.

Diggle looks at Oliver with a mixture of awe and confusion. "What the hell did you do?"

"I've been building computers from old parts since I was seven," he replies with a shrug. "Wires are wires." As Diggle shakes his head, Oliver asks, "What do we do now?"

"Pray we don't have a heart attack ourselves," is his laconic answer.

* * *

Oliver manages to get some sleep in a chair for a few hours, after the adrenaline finally wears off. He awakens to the sound of a flatline on the heart monitor, and Diggle is already going for the paddles.

"Wait," Oliver commands, seeing the loose leads on her torso. He gently fixes them, and the beeping stops. "The leads just came loose."

Diggle lets loose a frustrated groan. "This is less stressful when she's jumping off rooftops!" he says in an agitated yell.

Oliver, though, realizes that her bow— _the_ bow—is laying on a table across from them, and he goes to it, testing the draw weight, surprised at how heavy it is. "This bow," he comments to Diggle, figuring he can use the distraction, "has put arrows in quite a few people." He puts it down, turning back to the other man. "That doesn't bother you? Because—and I mean this in a good way—you seem like the kind of person it would bother."

The story Diggle tells in response is like many Oliver has heard in the past: his unit was assigned to protect a warlord, and, in doing so, he shot a child. "He couldn't have been more than fifteen," Diggle tells him, "and I shot him. He was a kid—somebody's baby—and I shot him in the throat, but for what? To protect a piece of sub-human filth who sold both opium and children. After that, I wasn't really sure of what I was fighting for, but doing this... whatever the hell it is with Felicity, I feel good again—for the first time in a very long time."

Oliver feels the need to bare his soul a little, too. "I think I know what you mean," he says. "The... computer stuff I do? I haven't always done good things with it, but when she came to me, I felt like I helped clean up this city, too. It's a nice feeling—helps clear a guilty conscience." He hesitates. "But I don't know if I like that she's killed so many people.

Diggle's tone is hardened when he replies, "Unfortunately, there are always casualties when you're fighting a war."

* * *

By the time the sun rises, Felicity is stirring, and it doesn't take her long to open her eyes. She looks tired—more exhausted than she had appeared during the whole Vertigo thing. Oliver watches her expectantly as she turns her eyes on Diggle, then on him. The corners of her mouth, still coated with emerald green lipstick, turn up ever-so-slightly as she says, "I guess I didn't die... again." Her voice is distorted from disuse. "Cool."

Oliver smiles at her. "Yeah, but you nearly killed _us_ in the process," he says, only half-joking.

She winces as she sits up, and Oliver moves to help her. He stops abruptly, though, when the straps on her tank and bra fall and pull that section of the neckline dangerously low, deciding that it would be best for all parties if he stayed away. On the opposite side, where her shirt is hiked up, he can see a vertical line of Chinese characters tattooed across her skin.

"Can you get me a mirror?" she asks Diggle, who hands her one, having already found it. The wound is an angry red line in a lighter red splotch, and, in Oliver's opinion, it looks excruciatingly painful and just a little nasty. That's going to hurt her for a while, though, no doubt about it. She examines it with a practiced eye before asking, "Well, how are we gonna explain this one?"

"Hickey gone wrong?" Diggle offers instantly, and Oliver snorts. Felicity looks anything but amused as she pulls both straps over her shoulder, wincing.

Oliver is back at the computer system by then, and he comments, "You must be popular—the police just got another blood sample from Smoak Consolidated, and now it's been ordered destroyed again. Oops," he adds as an afterthought. When he turns, Felicity is watching him with a hawk-like stare that he finds more than a little intimidating as she looks at the new computer setup. He smiles at her sheepishly. "I hope it's alright, but I took the liberty of updating your system because it hurt me in my soul. It looked like it was from the eighties—and _not_ the good part of the eighties, like _The A-Team_ and _Adventure Island_."

"It's a lot of work," she says approvingly. "I take it this means you're in?"

He nods in affirmation. "As in join your crusade? I've been in since you brought me that shot-up laptop," he answers truthfully.

She chuckles. "Yeah, you're already an honorary member," she agrees.

"But I'll only officially join up if you'll help me when I find Walter," he says seriously. "Walter's a good guy, and Diggle told me that the notebook you guys use for your crime-fighting escapades is the same one that got him abducted."

She extends a hand for him to shake. "Deal," she says when the follow through, winking at him. "Mr. Diggle," she calls over her shoulder, "could you please pull the car around for me while I change?"

Diggle gives the two a glance that Oliver doesn't understand as he says, "Sure," and makes his way back up the stairs.

"It looks like I owe you one again," she says with that almost-smile.

"Friends don't keep score," he disagrees.

Again, the motion is so quick that he's not prepared for it. She reaches up and cups his cheek, kissing the other side. "Well, then... thank you, Oliver."

He's pretty sure that he's grinning like a loon. "You're welcome, Felicity."

He leaves her alone after that, making sure to remove any green lipstick from his cheek. But, even as he gets lost in his thoughts, he can't help thinking that this is something much more than he expected—and not just for him, but for both of them.


End file.
